Over You
Stevie J. Cole
Contents
Also by Stevie J. Cole
1. Georgia Anne
2. Spencer
3. Georgia
4. Spencer
5. Georgia Anne
6. Spencer
7. Spencer
8. Georgia Anne
9. Spencer
10. Georgia Anne
11. Spencer
12. Georgia Anne
13. Spencer
14. Georgia
15. Spencer
16. Georgia Anne
17. Spencer
18. Georgia
19. Spencer
20. Georgia Anne
21. Spencer
22. Georgia Anne
Excerpt of The Sun
Also FREE on KU by Stevie J. Cole
If you are not too long, I will wait for you all my life. - Oscar Wilde
To Jen, Kristy, Stephie, and Leddy
Also by Stevie J. Cole
The Sun
Falling In Between
Whiskey Lullaby
1
Georgia Anne
I hoped that the next line of blow made the arrogant, womanizing, all-around, grade-A asshole keel over.
Go ahead. Judge me, but that was exactly what I wished for when mega-watt, rock star, Jag Steele—who also happened to be my rocker boyfriend, Spencer Hailstorm’s, idol—leaned over to get his next fix.
Maybe hoping for sudden death was harsh, but the past year in Hollywood had made me cruel. Plus, we weren’t that for from a hospital. . .so the fucker wouldn’t actually die. It would just ruin his stupid, cockstar party.
At one point in life, I wouldn’t have wished bad things on that conceited manwhore snorting rail after rail next to Spencer. But that version of Georgia Anne was long gone. Just like the guy who had once loved her in a way that would have made Shakespeare jealous: unconditionally, undeniably, and without fault.
You see, that boy who used to wear second-hand clothes and write love notes to me on gum wrappers had been destroyed when he became the lead singer of the multiplatinum rock band, Midnite Kills.
Devoured.
Digested.
And spat out in designer clothing.
The Spencer I had fallen in love with six years ago wouldn’t have fought with me in the car on the way over, since he wouldn’t have had cocaine hidden in his pocket. But that boy was lost somewhere between playing in bars and playing in arenas. While his eyes may have still been the same turbulent blue that reminded me of an ocean after a storm, the Spencer who had loved me more than life itself was MIA, and for what?
A gunmetal Porsche, a slut-red Maserati, and a house in the hills.
To some that may have sounded like the jackpot, but what people on the outside didn’t realize was: Hollywood came with a packaged side of bullshit that was nothing other than a glorified death wish.
Sure, Spencer wore those tight black Versace shirts like a second skin. The collars always dipped low enough to reveal his colorful chest tattoos, but fame was a four-letter word, a virus that was slowly killing every part of me, every part of him. Each last piece of us.
“Man, it’s my birthday. Come on. . .” Jag elbowed Spencer in the ribs, and, like a puppet, Spencer leaned over the table. A strand of dish-water blond hair fell from his messy bun when he took a hit.
“Really?” I groaned.
Jag’s gaze landed on me, his pupils blown wide. “It’s my birthday, princess. Give him a break.”
I patted Jag’s hollowed cheek. “Go screw yourself,” I grumbled before I pushed off the couch.
“Georgia Anne. Babe!” Spencer staggered to his feet, wiping under his nose.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
That shouldn’t have been enough to make him take a seat at the devil’s altar, but it was, and he did. Right next to Lucifer himself.
Music thumped through the sound system while I swam in a sea of models and rock stars, the actresses and socialites all in their clicks, crowding Jag’s expansive living room. I skirted around the waitresses wearing little black dresses and red stilettos carting trays of drinks and cocaine on their shoulders, with no intention of going to the bathroom. All I needed was point five seconds away from the shitshow that was my life, which was why I headed straight to the massive floor-to-ceiling window of the Beverly Hills mansion.
The lights of Los Angeles glittered below like tiny jewels strewn across sand, and for the first time in my life, I would have given anything to be back in that valley where life was somewhat sane.
Placing my palm and forehead to the cool glass, I wondered how much longer I could hold onto this speeding car before I either had to let go or inevitably wound up in some horrific, fiery crash?
“Champagne?” One of the waitresses halted beside me. The glasses on her tray clinked together.
I could have downed every drink on that silver platter, and it still wouldn’t have been enough alcohol to make that party bearable. I snagged a flute of champagne anyway. The strand of effervescent bubbles danced along the curved glass. After two sips, I turned around.
Women had congregated around Spencer and Jag, staring, swooning. Touching. And both guys seemed oblivious to it all.
Three selfies in, Spencer’s gaze landed on me, and I quickly looked away, focusing instead on one of the black and white prints of Jag’s naked girlfriend that decorated the walls. I downed my drink and turned back to gaze out the window. Seconds later, an arm wrapped around my waist. Warm lips pressed to my neck. “You okay, babe?”
Our gazes locked on our reflection in the window. “I told you I didn’t want to come.”
“It’s not good to stay cooped up in the house.” Another kiss and his hands slid to my hips. “That dress looks good on you.” His warm breath fanned across my throat.
As mad as I was, as empty as I felt from what we had lost, my body reacted to his touch. Like a woman stranded in the desert, I was thirsty for his affection. For his touch. And I gave in for a moment, tilting my head to the side in the hopes the path of his lips would continue farther.
“It’s just hard.” I swallowed and fought the anxiety winding through my chest. “Smiling when there’s still a gaping wound.”
“I know.” His soft lips pressed below my ear. “We can go if you want.”
God, how I wanted to leave, but before I could answer, one of the label’s assistants grabbed Spencer by the elbow. “I need to steal him. Just for a moment.” She grinned at me. Her collagen-injected cheeks inflated like balloons. I just wanted to take something sharp and pop them.
Spencer’s arm untangled from my waist. He took a thoughtless step away before moving back to give me a quick kiss—as if I were an afterthought. The taste of whiskey and mint lingered on my lips. And just like that, we were no longer leaving, and the last bit of hope I’d desperately clung to frayed and snapped like the thread of a well-worn sweater.
Halfway across the room, the assistant grabbed Jag and led Spencer and him to a group of giggling, star-struck girls in the corner.
I took a deep breath.
The temptation to take the glass in my hand, smash it on the floor, and cause a scene fit for daytime television was strong. After all, when in Rome. . .
A boney elbow nudged my side. I pushed the emotions down where they belonged. Unnaturally round boobs spilled out of a low-cut, sequin dress. I’d seen Jag’s significant other a handful of times, but River and I had never spoken. She flicked her white-blond hair over her shoulder. “You’re Spencer’s chick, right?”
I watched both Jag and Spencer scrawl their signatures over the chest of a busty redhead. “Something like that,” I said, my pulse ticking up by the second.
River’s gaze strayed ac
ross the room just as Jag pretended to motorboat the redhead for a picture. Spencer stood beside him with his gaze aimed at the floor.
River sighed. “It’s part of it, you know? Hollywood Girlfriend 101: grin and bear it. The tabloids love to make us out to be jealous, raging psychos.” She laughed, then patted my back. “Just know, the first time he cheats, he doesn’t mean it. It all kinda goes to their heads. He’ll get high or drunk or both, and end up backstage with some chick who just wants to suck his dick. One thing leads to another. . . It’s impossible to avoid, really.”
The sad truth was, from what I’d seen, most of these guys were unfaithful. But Spencer was not most of these guys. . .at least, he didn’t used to be. “I’m not worried about the women,” I said, sounding more certain than I felt. “We’ve been together since we were teenagers.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her smile of pity caused my stomach to twist. “Maybe the guy he was before wouldn’t have cheated, but he’ll never be that guy again. Trust me. I’m three years in on the fame train. You just have to decide what you can manage.”
The guy he was before ricocheted through my head like a stray bullet. Panic tore at my throat. Maybe I was more naïve than I wanted to believe.
Jag strutted past, full of swagger in his leather pants and messy, jet-black hair, with one arm wrapped around a barely legal girl’s waist. His hand crept toward her ass, and he didn’t even glance at River. My gaze swung to the opposite side of the room where Spencer took selfies with a revolving door of females.
I swallowed. “And what did you decide you could manage?”
“Oh. You know.” River dug a pharmacy bottle from the glitter-covered clutch in her hand. One tap. Two. A few cylindrical, blue pills fell into her palm. She offered me one, but I shook my head. After tossing them into her mouth, she snagged a glass of champagne from a nearby table and downed them.
“It’s give and take.” She shrugged. “He sleeps with a pretty blonde; I get a new Gucci bag.”
Designer handbags in exchange for one-night stands? No way in hell.
“Think about it,” she said, snapping her clutch closed. “Our guys have thousands—millions—of women throwing themselves at them. How could you possibly expect them not to slip up once in a while? It just comes with the territory, honey.”
That knot in my gut grew tighter and tighter.
“But, the thing to remember, all those other whores,” she said, nodding to the women flocked around Spencer. “They’re insignificant. Besides, gods don’t play by the same rules as mere mortals, babe. And we are dating gods.”
But I had never wanted a god. I only wanted Spencer.
2
Spencer
Three a.m.
Some say it’s the witching hour. Some say it’s the hour of writers and artists; creatives. To me, three a.m. was the hour of promises.
I promise I’ll be sober tomorrow.
Then I’d snort that line right up my nose or down that shot of whiskey. But at three a.m., when I couldn’t sleep. . . I had twenty-one hours left to believe I still had hope. And that was a lot better than none.
From my pool deck, I had the perfect view of the San Fernando Valley. The city lights twinkled like a manmade heaven. A warm breeze rolled across the patio. Ripples disturbed the solitude of the infinity pool, casting eerie shadows onto the ivy-covered retaining wall, and I thought, maybe I would walk away this time. There was the quiet of the night, and then there was the silence when the rest of the world was asleep and I was still awake. Shadows appeared menacing. The distant sound of an ambulance became incredulously more ominous. I was left with nothing except my thoughts. Sometimes that was a dangerous place to be sober.
And the high from the party earlier was wearing off. Fast.
I shouldn’t have taken Georgia to Jag’s, but—and there was always a but—my intentions had been good. I thought us getting out and pretending life was normal would ease the depression. The tension. The life we’d somehow managed to end up with—one we’d begged for, fought for without realizing it was everything we had never wanted. Maybe I’d grown so used to smiling and pretending to be a decent human being for the fans that I’d forgotten the toll it took on a person’s soul to be fake.
Scoffing, I used a credit card to draw the drug into a chalky-white line.
Fake. We were all fake because the shitshow wasn’t near as glamorous as the selfies and Instagram posts made it appear. Had I only known. . .
And with that thought, like the habit it had become, I pushed my hair behind my ear, leaned over the glass table beside the lounge, and one, hard sniff later, that dusty line disappeared.
For the few minutes before the drug kicked in, guilt twisted my guts. Soon enough a form of repented peace bled from my fingers to my toes, and I somehow forgot that fame was a lying son-of-a-bitch.
I laid back on the lounge with my hands clasped behind my head, and I stared at the few stars the greedy LA lights hadn’t drowned out with their obnoxious, electronic glow. My life was far from perfect now, then again, it had never been perfect. Honestly, that’s just not the way existence worked. The universe wanted sweat-equity and heartache just as much as it wanted relaxation and happiness. It’s what kept the world in a constant state of homeostasis. Without darkness, we’d be oblivious to the light. Without hate, we couldn’t experience love. . .
Back in Van Nuys, Georgia and I dreamed about being able to take a vacation to Reno. Reno. The redheaded stepchild of Las Vegas seemed like a far-fetched dream when we had to scrape pennies for gas. We argued over bills—nothing else. Had we had money back then, we would have cheated the goddamn universe out of its balance. There would have been no dark to our light. We’d traded in those disagreements for trips to Fiji and a house in Beverly Hills once owned by Marilyn Monroe—and now, we fought about drugs. About the tours and the paparazzi. The girls. . .
Sex. Drugs. Rock ‘n Roll. Unfortunately, those were necessary evils in this industry.
Clouds crawled across the moon. Every once in a while, the night sky was interrupted by red and white blinking lights of a plane overhead. And while I stared off, my mind wandered. It crept past the coke and the booze, the after parties and tours, the girls begging for my attention when the only woman who should ever have it was Georgia. I wondered, had we not lost that piece of us, would I have stayed sober?
A kink twisted my guts. A grief I still couldn’t face. One I didn’t think Georgia Anne would ever get over. How was anyone supposed to get over something like that?
The lounge creaked when I sat up and leaned over the table to get another fix. Minutes ticked by, and that pain ate away at me like maggots on rotting flesh.
Palms leaves rustled beside the house barely visible in the dark. Then that euphoria set in like a shot of Novocain to the soul. It devoured that painful memory, and I exhaled at the relief.
The thing to know about me: I didn’t set out to be an addict. I mean, no one in their right mind swallows a pill and thinks, this is the night I ruin my life.
If the label had a fancy, typed-up list of job requirement for a musician, it would read something like this: killer pipes with the ability to shred on a guitar, fine-tuned art of seduction, and a knack for doing drugs. Let’s just be honest. The stereotype existed for a reason, and frankly, I didn’t know a rocker without a drug habit. Or at least one who didn’t used to have a habit.
I watched Nash, my best friend since high school, pop and guzzle without a problem. Gage Bennet, Axel Stevens. Jimmy Rage. Jag Steele. All mega-superstars and they all snorted and swallowed. Being a newbie rocker was akin to being a ten-year-old at YMCA summer camp and watching all the other kids line up to do the high dive. I was terrified of heights, and I didn’t want to jump. With each kid that freefell into the water, the curiosity grew. Each and every one popped up with shit-eating grins, like hurdling off that springboard was the best thrill ever. None of them died when they hit the water.
Eventually, I climbed the rusted ladd
er to the springboard—I popped a pill.
I leaped into the cold water—I snorted a line.
And the thrill? Well, there was nothing else like it.
Another plane flew overhead, the rumble of the engine breaking me from my thoughts. I didn’t even know how long I’d been outside. The lights to the bedroom were off, and damn, I felt guilty for letting Georgia fall asleep alone.
Inhaling, I thought about what a shitty husband I’d turned into, then stood and fought against my blurry vision as I stumbled across the patio. After trying to quietly open the sliding glass door a few times, the suction finally caught, and the door glided on its track.
I tiptoed across the Italian marble we’d installed three months before, stopping halfway between the open door and our bed. The moonlight draped Georgia Anne’s sleeping figure in a silvery-blue haze. Monet, Van Gogh, not even motherfucking da Vinci could have painted something that perfect. She was the raw definition of beauty. Not in some Vogue cover, in-your-face-glam manner, but in a way that sneaks up on you, like a sunset. One minute the sky was bright blue, the next a burnt orange, then pink. The longer you stared, hints of lilacs and yellows crept in. There was never-ending beauty in a sunset, and the same was true about that woman.
Her chest rose and fell on ragged swells. Ebony hair fanned over the pillow where my head should have been. And that shame crept back up like a zombie digging out from its grave.
My fingers pulled into tight fists while the coke sent my muscles twitching. Georgia mumbled “please” in her sleep, and my chest tightened. Guilt. Worry. Regret.
Over You Page 1